


Blindsided

by Anyawen



Series: Collisions [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, HLV, Injury Recovery, Missing Scene, because nothing is ever simple, raising new questions, some questions are answered
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7421566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is in hospital recovering from the gunshot to the chest and the collapse at Baker Street following his walkabout adventure. John is at his side, working to unravel the motivations of the woman who shot him. Mycroft's hands are tied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blindsided

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to team Beta, many of whom have seen pieces of this fic several times over the last 2 years, as my Muse would show up for a day or three to get excited about working on it again, before vanishing into the aether without a trace. I very much appreciate your patience and your eyeballs.

John woke seconds before his alarm went off the next morning. He felt no disorientation waking in his old room at Baker Street, only surprise that he'd fallen asleep at all, and that his sleep had been free from nightmares.

He'd fully expected to spend the night chasing his thoughts in circles, or running from the horrors that still occasionally haunted his dreams. The stress and revelations of the last few days had certainly primed him for a restless night of worry and regret.

Instead, he'd slept the sleep of the dead and felt vaguely guilty about it. And about leaving Greg in hospital minding Sherlock.

As he showered and dressed John worried. Sherlock was stable and safe, thank Christ, but Mary's motivations were a mystery to him. He couldn't decide what danger she might still pose – whether she was more, or less dangerous now that she was exposed. Both he and Sherlock had assured Greg that she was not a threat to _them_ , but she might still be ready to take action against anyone else who knew her secret. She'd never get to Mycroft, even if she were foolish enough to try, but, _oh, god_ , Mrs Hudson had no protection at all. Even if Sherlock's elderly landlady didn't know the particulars of Mary's hidden double life, she knew that it existed, and that might be enough to push Mary to make a move. And if she found out that Greg knew … And then there was Wiggins.

John had heard Sherlock giving instructions to the young junkie, setting the stage for the reveal in Leinster Gardens. Given the way Wiggins had deduced John's habits from the creases on his shirt, there was every reason to believe that he'd worked out why Sherlock had needed to bring both Mary and John to the empty house following his disappearance from hospital.

Mary might not anticipate Greg having worked it out, but she'd certainly put together the clues leading to Wiggins. John had worked it out, after all, and he knew that Mary was cleverer than he was.

He'd do what he could for Wiggins, if he could find him. And if the other man trusted him, which was questionable, given the sprained arm John had inflicted on him at their first meeting. Arrangements would likely have to be made through Sherlock, through his homeless network.

John sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.

He'd reach out to Greg as soon as it was a decent hour for calling. He had no compunctions about ringing Mycroft now, though. Never sleeping seemed to be a genetic trait amongst the Holmes brothers.

He paused for a moment before pushing the button. Sherlock might complain about him asking Mycroft for help, but, no – they'd all know that it was just for form's sake. Even Sherlock would agree that protecting Mrs Hudson was worth the headache of dealing with the elder Holmes. His finger stabbed down, connecting the call.

The phone was picked up on the first ring.

“Good morning, John. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Mycroft,” John replied. “Do you have eyes on Mrs Hudson?”

“Baker Street is secure, John.”

“Good to know, but not actually what I asked. Mrs Hudson was here the other night, when Sherlock outed Mary. She left the flat before the details came out, but she might know enough for Mary to consider her a threat.”

“I'll make the appropriate arrangements.”

“Thanks, Mycroft,” John said, then hesitated. “It might also be prudent to put someone on Lestrade, too.”

“Oh?”

“I don't think it will occur to Mary that Greg might put it together, but he has.”

“I see.”

John snorted. “Didn't occur to you, either, did it? Took me by surprise, too, I'll admit. We don't give him nearly the credit he deserves.”

“So it would appear. Thank you for telling me, John. I'll put a detail on the Detective Inspector.”

“I'll let him know.”

“Good day, John.”

Thrusting the phone into his pocket, John grabbed his keys out of the dish on his dresser, then paused, eyes caught on the items remaining in the bottom of the bowl.

Resting against the thumb drive marked AGRA was a 50 pence piece with a hole through it.

He picked up the coin, flipping it over and over in his fingers. He'd found it in Sherlock's coat pocket. The nurses at hospital had efficiently stripped the coat from Sherlock's non-responsive form when the paramedics had transferred him from the gurney to the bed. It had been thrust into John's hands, and he'd been politely but firmly directed to the surgical waiting room. He wasn't sure how long he'd sat with the coat draped over his lap when Sherlock's text alert had chimed. John had reached into the coat pocket looking for the phone, and had found the coin instead.

The incoming text message was forgotten as John stared at the off-centre hole through the coin. He turned it over, and felt his skin tingle and burn at the adrenaline surge that followed the deduction flashing through his mind. The Belstaff slipped to the floor, unheeded.

The surgeon had come out then, and John had slipped the coin into his pocket and risen to his feet to speak with the doctor. He sagged with relief at the news, then retrieved the fallen coat and followed the doctor to the room where Sherlock would be brought for recovery. He'd waited for Sherlock to be settled into the room, checked over his patient files, and stormed off to speak with Mycroft, the coin forgotten.

Now, staring at it and remembering the startling insight he'd had the previous night, he felt cold down to his bones. John closed his hand around it, not realizing how strongly he was clenching his fist until the sharp edge of the bullet hole cut into his palm. He forced his hand to relax its white-knuckled grip and slipped the coin into his pocket with the keys, followed by the thumb drive.

John grabbed his laptop and clattered down the stairs. He puttered around the kitchen, anxious to get back to the hospital, but forcing himself to wait until he could hear Mrs Hudson moving around downstairs. When the sound of water rushing through the old pipes reached him, John stuffed both laptops into a bag and went to knock at the door to 221A.

He managed to beg off joining Mrs Hudson for tea, telling her that he'd just finished a cup upstairs. She tutted over him for a moment before packing up a container of ginger biscuits and sending him on his way.

John climbed into the cab and gave the driver the hospital address. Deciding that it was close enough to a decent hour, he set the laptop bag and the container of biscuits on the seat next to him and dug his phone out of his pocket. It rang twice before a sleep-roughened voice answered.

“Lestrade.”

“Greg, it's John.”

“John. Did you manage to get any sleep last night?”

“I did, actually, thanks. Did you?”

“Yeah, though you were right about that bloody chair. Molly came by around four this morning after her shift at Bart's. She brought curry. I think it was supposed to be her dinner, but Sherlock appropriated it.”

“The prat,” John chuckled. “I'll make it up to her. Uh, Greg, I wanted to thank you. For last night. Staying with Sherlock.”

“Of course.”

“Look, Greg,” John began, then hesitated. “I know I said last night that she wasn't a threat, and she's not, I think. Not to Sherlock. Or to me. At least not for now. But she may be dangerous to others who know her secret.”

“That your way of telling me to watch my back?”

“I suppose it is, yeah. She doesn't know that you know. Might be best if you can keep it that way.”

“Wasn't planning to advertise it,” Greg replied, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

“Good,” John replied, “though you'll have a bit of help to hand if she tries anything.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

“Mycroft.”

“Ah. So I should ignore suspicious suited men hanging about my crime scenes?”

“I see you're familiar with his methods,” John said with a huffed laugh.

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Take care, Greg, and thanks again.”

“Course. Let me know if you need anything. Either of you.”

“Ta,” John answered.

John disconnected the call as the cab pulled up to the kerb. He handed the driver a few notes, grabbed the laptops and the biscuits, and headed inside.


End file.
